


Hathaway Answers

by orphan_account



Series: The Long Road [15]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Bikes, M/M, Shock, Subterfuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This work is entirely due to Baskervillewatson's brilliant artwork which inspired me to use this as the last episode in the series The Long Road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hathaway Answers

It took a few weeks, a lot of long walks, several visits to the official psychiatrist and unhurried dinners with wine, followed by candid chatting for James and Robbie to reach some kind of equilibrium.

 

The work of years of indoctrination wasn’t going to be undone rapidly but the tongue-lashing he’d received from Maggie had pushed James into seeing his reaction in a different light. What he’d seen as noble and holy now seemed priggish and self-indulgent so he tried very hard to make it up to Robbie.

 

They spent nights together whenever possible although both of them valued their own spaces. Robbie was very surprised when Hathaway turned to him on a Friday evening and handed him a railway ticket.

 

“What’s this for?” he demanded.

 

“Manchester, first class return,” replied Hathaway with his most smug grin. “I thought you might want to visit Lyn and I arranged with Ma’am that you don’t have to be back at your desk until Thursday morning.” Robbie blew his cheeks out and ruffled his hair, not sure if he were pleased or not but very touched that Hathaway would blow all that money on him.

 

“I wanted to get you something and a visit to Lyn seemed the best thing. You haven’t seen her for a while.”

 

“Come here, ye daft sod,” Robbie put an arm around James and pulled him closer for a long kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

“Humour me and go to Manchester,” replied James archly.

 

“Do you have an ulterior motive for getting rid of me?”

 

“Not at all, Sir, I just wanted to get you a special treat. I’ve caused you such a lot of trouble recently and you’ve been so patient. I wanted to show my appreciation. That’s all.” Outside of work, “Sir,” had become a sort of pet-name James used for Robbie so that sometimes when he called him “Sir” in the office, they both found themselves grinning.

 

Early next morning, the dutiful sergeant waved until the train was out of sight then turned rapidly, ran down the platform back to his car and drove like a maniac to a driving centre outside Oxford.

 

No-L was the awful pun in the name of the company that specialised in intensive courses. James had signed up on the four-day residential course for false-beginners to get him through his motorbike licence. He’d learned to ride a bike on the farm at Crevecoeur when he was a kid; they’d used them to reach distant fields and played at scrambling on the cart-tracks but he didn’t have a licence or any experience in riding on the roads. Mr Binns (‘Wheelie’ to me mates) who owned the centre thought this wouldn’t be a problem, given that DS Hathaway probably knew the Highway code better than most people, the theory test would be a given and it was merely a question of getting him “steady on his wheels” again and “shoving him out in the traffic”

 

That first morning James started his CBT and breezed through most of it, so just before lunch he was given his leathers and helmet, told where his room was, directed to return as quickly as possible when they’d “grab some nosh”.

 

It was no secret to anyone that James had a narcissistic streak a mile wide. He absolutely LOVED himself in the bike leathers. He spent a good few minutes twisting and turning in front of the mirror, smiling at the effect on his lean frame. It was quite a turn-on to see himself in this complete antithesis of the immaculately clean-cut image he normally presented to the world, he rather suspected he’d be recalling this look tonight, alone in his bed and missing Robbie. Tucking his helmet under his arm, in what he considered a rather dashing way, he trotted back to the training track where Mrs Binns ran a snack caravan and cooked him a bacon sandwich.

 

Having very long legs was a blessing, James decided as he sat astride a 500cc Kawasaki. It felt fabulous and he couldn’t stop thinking how gorgeous he probably looked too. Wheelie got him riding very slowly around slaloms and figures of 8. Keeping the bike under control at low speeds, he explained, being much more important than being able to “gun it up big” faster than everyone else.

 

James loved the feeling of guiding the bike with his weight. For the first time in most of his life he felt innately good at something that wasn’t cerebral. He and the machine felt right together, either gently using the handlebars or bending it with a shift of his hip, and he couldn’t wait to share it with Robbie. He’d take him out for a spin on the back as soon as he got back from Manchester. His self-esteem rose several notches that day.

 

James showed real natural talent at biking and Wheelie paid him a compliment when, at the end of the course, James had qualified, holding his test certificate proudly out for inspection.

 

“You say some bird GAVE you a Harley?” He quizzed the detective sergeant. James nodded, not wishing to go into details. Wheelie removed his oily baseball cap and scratched his bald head.

 

“Well I reckon that bird knew what she was up to then, mate, chose perfect she did. She must’ve been one hell of a biker.” James nodded again, smiling quietly

 

“One hell of a bird, too,” he replied.

 

Reluctantly removing his leathers and deciding he’d have to buy some of his own when funds permitted, because he was sure Robbie would fancy him in them, James changed back into his dark work suit and drove home. Trotting up the steps to his flat, he looked at his watch and frowned – he’d have to rush, Robbie’s train should have arrived over an hour ago, even allowing for finding a taxi, he should have been home by now.

 

His phone rang as he was fumbling with his bunch of keys, trying to open the door and he assumed it would be Robbie but when he answered, it was a nurse at the hospital.

 

There had been a derailment outside Oxford, a train from Manchester, two carriages over on their sides. James sat down hard on the outside step, the phone pressed to his ear. They’d found Robbie’s phone in his pocket but nobody had thought to phone him for an hour. It wasn’t until someone noticed the heart he’d marked against James’ name that they’d realised he was the “ICE”

 

“Is he, how, tell me …” for once Hathaway was inarticulate with fear.

 

“I can tell you that he’s alive and for the moment that’s all I can tell you on the phone. Will you be able to get to the …..?” James had cut the communication and was throwing himself on the Harley, parked in the area in front of the house.

 

He pressed the electric start and the engine roared into life, with no helmet on, the wind cutting like a knife through his lightweight suit and the ink hardly dry on his licence, DS Hathaway broke speed limits on his Harley all the way to the hospital where he nearly dropped the bike, so eager was he to chuck it on its stand. A police car drew up behind him and the uniform got out then recognised him

 

“It’s Inspector Lewis” explained Hathaway, his face numb with cold and unaware that tears were trickling down his cheeks. “He’s been in a train crash.”

 

“Forget it then Sarge. I’ll take the bike and park it properly – you weren’t here OK?”

 

Robbie was in a private room, a usual arrangement for police officers and James was shown in.

 

“He’s had a head trauma,” explained the nurse, a large Scottish woman. “He’s been put into an induced coma to stop him moving his head and injuring himself any further. He certainly won’t come out of it until tomorrow morning so there’s no point staying.”

 

“I want to. I’d rather...” The nurse sighed and patted his shoulder.

 

“Alright, young man – there’s a drinks machine in the corridor if you require a cup of warm liquid… which is about the best I can say of it.” She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

 

James bent over the inert figure in the bed and planted a kiss on Robbie’s forehead.

 

“Hello … Sir. I’m not going to leave you. I’ll be right here. You’re going to be fine, Robbie.” He drew the chair up close to the bed, sat down and took Robbie’s hand. He talked on and on, through the night, just in case his lover could hear him, talking about all the great things they would do when Robbie was better. When he ran out of things to say he just squeezed Robbie’s hand.

 

He felt in his pocket and found the tiny 12-bead rosary his mother had given him when he joined the seminary. He found himself telling the beads on the mantra of “Love is never wrong, love is never wrong, love is never wrong,” with a “You’ll be fine, Robbie” on the Our Father bead.

He must have nodded off because when the doctor entered the room in the early morning, James was asleep in the chair, Robbie’s hand still in his and the chaplet drooping from the other. Robbie was coming out of his chemically-induced stupor and blinking in the light.

 

“James. What’re you doing here?”

 

“Where else would I be?”

 

“Is this your son, Inspector Lewis?” The doctor was a very young man, probably just out of medical school and he didn’t turn a hair when James turned to him and said

 

“No, I’m not his son, I’m his lover.” Robbie squeezed his hand and said, quite unnecessarily, in James’ opinion,

 

“That’s right, we’re gay.”

 

It had been a long road, but they’d got there in the end. James squeezed Robbie’s hand again and said

 

“Indeed we are, my love, indeed we are.”


End file.
